


The Taste of Regret

by wargoddess



Series: Prompts [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Safewords, Secret Relationship, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver gets hit with a lust spell; Cullen helps him through it. Cullen thinks that's it, though, and Carver ain't havin' none of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Light Shall Lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115364) by [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/pseuds/tanukiham). 



> NOTE: I originally posted this as a short drabble done for a "sex pollen" prompt, called "Next Time Less Magic". Changed the ending and decided to make it ongoing. Also note this is a random/generic version of Carver and Cullen, unrelated to anything else I've written, not in a prior relationship. Probably heavily flavored by the Cullen and Carver in tanukiham's "The Other Hawke" series. Marked "rape/non-con" because I know some people view dubcon as just as bad.
> 
> Basically this is "what if Cullen and Carver got together and had to keep the whole thing secret, and what if something -- say, a lust spell -- introduced the element of BDSM into their relationship at the very beginning?" But really it's just another excuse for me to write porn with my favorite OTP.

"Ser… please, ser," The words were a mantra, a chant, a half-mad ramble; Carver was always talkative, but this time he was positively babbling.  It was something Cullen understood well, of course, because back then, in the cage, he had talked to himself as well.  It was a way to focus.  To stay in control.

They almost had his armor off, though it was difficult because Carver would not hold still.  It had apparently taken all of the man’s self-control to make it to Cullen’s office with something approaching dignity, never letting on that the spell had taken hold, but behind closed doors he was fidgety, frantic, dancing from foot to foot.  “Shh,” Cullen said, unnecessarily because he knew it would not stop Carver’s rambling or twitching; he hoped only to soothe the man.  He'd managed to get most of the plate off at last, though Carver still wore his boots and shin guards, and now he untied the gambeson as quickly as he could, while Carver panted and tried to help him and mostly just slowed things down.  “Stop that, Hawke.  Let me do this.”

"Sorry."  Cullen looked up to see Carver shaking, on the brink of tears.  "Ser, I know, I _know_ it’s not right, I sh-should’ve taken care of this myself, not made you, I just, Maker, I’m so weak — “

Cullen shook his head and stopped to cup Carver’s face.  “That is not true, Knight Lieutenant.  The nature of such a spell compels you toward its caster; that you came to me instead is a mark of your strength.”

Carver laughed weakly.  “Never even thought of Taylor. Don’t know why.” His smile crumpled into anguish.  “Oh, ser, it _hurts_ , please, please, please, sodding _touch_ me.”

For that alone, Cullen decided grimly, he would have to work with Orsino on an appropriate punishment for the mage in question. Taylor had not yet passed her Harrowing, and an apprentice certainly couldn’t be held completely responsible for an accidental release of magic — that was the whole point of apprenticeship — but that the magic had taken this particular form was a problem.  The spell itself was innocent enough, an adolescent’s doe-eyed crush manifesting as lust and direction, but the way it _drove_ at Carver, tormenting him, was simply unacceptable.  Cullen threw the gambeson onto the couch and — hesitating only a little; concern for Carver outweighed propriety — pressed a hand to Carver’s crotch, across the rather obvious lump tenting his trousers.  Carver cried out, then pressed the back of his hand to his mouth in horror, eyes darting toward the door.

"It cannot be helped," Cullen said gently, his heart constricting.  Poor Carver, caring nothing for his own reputation — everyone knew how often he went to the Rose — but fretting so over _Cullen’s_.  “Do try to be discreet, of course, but if you cannot, I will instruct the guards that they heard nothing.  This is just a meeting, no different from usual, to discuss the incident with Taylor.”  He would have to do it quickly, of course, and threaten sufficient punishment to ensure the guards’ silence; no telling how Meredith might hold it against Carver if she learned the Champion’s brother had been overcome by a lust-spell.  And she would hear about it anyway, but hopefully by then it would have become only rumor, nothing provable.  She was less and less rational, and more prone to extreme judgments by the day, it seemed; it troubled Cullen that he could take advantage of that, and also that he had to.

In the meantime Carver had stripped off his own shirt, though Cullen had meant him to leave it on.  Unsurprising that he’d done so; the spell had him flushed and overheated, dripping sweat.  But — oh.  It was harder, then, for Cullen to tell himself that this was just exercise, no different from sparring, just something that one of his knights needed and that Cullen could provide, because Carver was _beautiful_ — broad-shouldered and smooth-skinned and fine-muscled, chest heaving slightly in his extremity.  No matter how Cullen tried to think of Andraste and verses instead, he could not help noticing the tickle of hair around Carver’s nipples, and the beckoning trail of it beneath his navel, and the cleanly-outlined girdle of Maferath about his hips.  Cullen’s hand was already stroking Carver inexpertly through the cloth of his trousers; did it really matter if he looked elsewhere?  Or _touched_ elsewhere?  How much worse a thing could it be…?

"Oh, Maker, ser, bloody Void, yeah."  It was a moan, and the little break in Carver’s voice as he said this tightened everything inside Cullen because _Carver was watching him_.  Carver was reacting to Cullen’s gaze, growing even more aroused beneath it.  And Cullen tried to look away, feeling the voyeur or the tormentor or both, but then Carver’s trembling hand caught Cullen’s free one and drew it to the ridges of his belly.  His skin was hot, and damp, and softer than Cullen had even imagined — if Cullen had ever let himself imagine this before.  (But he had, hadn’t he?  He had.)  “ _Please._ ”

Cullen swallowed.  “How shall I ease you, Hawke?”

"Anything.  Anything you want."  Carver shuddered with every stroke of Cullen’s hand; his cheeks had gone red, his lips too.  "I can’t think, ser.  Maker, I’ll do anything you ask."

Maker preserve him and keep him focused upon his goal.

Licking his lips, Cullen unfastened Carver’s trousers and pushed them down, batting the man’s hands away when Carver immediately reached for his own cock.  Free of the cloth, Carver was smooth and hard and so hot that he seemed to burn Cullen’s fingers, and he was beautiful here too.  The temptation to let his fingers linger, to tease Carver and draw out his pleasure — _No_.  Carver needed release, before the damned spell drove him mad.  Setting his jaw, Cullen stepped in close for a better angle, sliding an arm ‘round Carver to hold him still and taking his hand away for a moment to spit into the palm.  Then he took a firmer grip, and pumped with a purpose.

It took barely a moment, and then Carver was clinging to him, shuddering and gasping onto Cullen’s pauldron as he spilled over Cullen’s fingers.  Relieved that it had taken so little, Cullen let out a breath and waited for the spell to release him, praying that keeping things perfunctory would ease any awkwardness.  He looked around for a sword-cleaning cloth to mop his Knight Lieutenant up.

Before he could pull away, however, Carver moaned and pressed hard against him, one hand cupping the back of Cullen’s head. 

"Hawke," Cullen blurted, in surprise, for Carver had lifted his eyes and they were glazed and hot and oh so very blue.

“ _Ser._ "  Carver’s voice broke again, so raw and full of need was it.  His hand tightened, a warning, and a moment later Cullen made a muffled sound as Carver’s mouth fastened onto his.  It was a pleading sort of kiss, all nipping lips and whimpers and inviting licks, and — and was it so terrible that Cullen let Carver lure his tongue in, and suck upon it, and moan down his throat?  As he stood here with the man’s spend cooling on his fingers —

— and then Carver was pulling him forward, leaning himself back against Cullen’s desk, fumbling at Cullen’s codpiece.  “ _Please_ , ser. Sodding, fucking _please_.”

It took everything Cullen had to pull away from those lips.  He took a deep breath to marshall his thoughts and managed to say, “Has the spell eased none, Hawke?”

"No."  Carver threw open the drapes of Cullen’s gambeson, and had already loosened the codpiece straps with his other hand; Cullen could not bring himself to push the man’s hands away.  "No, it’s _worse_ , I can’t think, ser, ser, I’ve thought of this, wanted you — “  He got the codpiece loose and threw it to the floor, and Cullen inhaled at the hot ache of want that throbbed through him when Carver’s hands fumbled over his trousers.  “Ser, I’m sorry, I think I need, I just, please, just fucking — “  Abruptly Carver cut himself off, and froze, though he shook harder than ever and made a little sound of strain.  His face ran with sweat, plastering his hair to his forehead, his breath came fast and hard, shoulders heaving.

_The damned spell drives him worse than a demon_.  Troubled, Cullen stroked Carver’s hip, forgetting that hand was soiled and smearing stickiness over Carver’s skin.  Oh, but such smooth, fine skin that was!  A nobleman’s skin, soft and like satin as Cullen thought of gripping bruises into it, sitting him on the desk and lifting his legs and — dearest Maker.  What was wrong with him?

He shook off the fantasy and made himself say, “What is it, Hawke?”

Carver hung his head, shaking.  “I… I know you don’t want me.  But.” He heaved a breath.  “I need you.  I-in me.  I think I need you to — “  He blushed and looked away.

Cullen closed his eyes for a moment and thought, _I do want you_.  Maker help him, he did.  But he said, “I would not cause you pain, Hawke.  I — “  He blushed as well.  “I know only the theory of these matters, but we lack… accessories.”

Carver lifted a shaking hand, pointing toward the lantern sitting right beside them on Cullen’s desk.  Full of cinnamon-scented oil.

_The Maker’s will be done_ , Cullen decided then, and gave himself over to it all.  “Turn about, then,” he breathed.

With a look of purest gratitude, Carver turned hurriedly to face the desk, bending forward and resting his hands between stacks of paper.  Cullen had his own trousers open and the lantern uncapped and a handful of oil before he’d quite thought of what he was doing, and a moment later he was pushing into Carver, holding him still with one hand on his shoulder, remembering only belatedly that he should have been slower about it, opening him up first and making him ready.  But Carver’s bone-shakingly deep groan told him that he’d had the right of it, and by then he’d sunk deep and begun to lose himself in heat and tightness and his own ache of need.

And then Carver was half-sprawled amid Cullen’s papers, uttering unintelligible pleas while Cullen worked carefully, then with decreasing care, at his nether entrance.  Cullen could not bring himself to think of it as _fucking_ ; he was not so base, and Carver was not some meaningless bit of flesh to be had in a back room or at the Rose.  Yet Cullen could no longer pretend that there was no joy in it for him, either, for there _was_ , and he reveled in the feel of Carver writhing beneath him, of having his Lieutenant across his desk, of the creak and groan of his armor as he thrust, of flesh and breath and sweetness and need tightening, tightening, tension growing so fierce that he had to bite his lip to keep from joining Carver in gibbering, and finally the ache that had sharpened to a fine point in his groin at last _burst_ —

And in the wash of his own delight, Cullen was suddenly very, very glad the spell had not driven Carver toward Taylor.

As his vision cleared and his blood slowed, he saw that Carver had put a hand under himself and begun shuddering in a familiar way.  By the time Cullen recovered his reason it was done, and by Carver’s heavy sighs of relief it was easy enough to see that the spell had finally been served.  He removed himself carefully from Carver’s person, and this time found a nearby sword-rag to mop up the mess.  Not all of it, sadly; when Carver groaned and pushed himself up from the desk, Cullen flushed at the sight of some of his papers damp with sweat and — well, _that_ was not sweat.  But it was honorably-earned, and he could not fault Carver for the vagaries of his body, not when Cullen himself had not thought to withdraw before his own release.  (He wiped the desk papers quickly anyway, in hopes that the valuable paper would not be stained.)

There was a water-basin in the room, so Cullen went to rinse the rag, and by the time he returned Carver had stood up straight — though his head hung, and his shoulders slumped, and it was all too easy to guess what thought ran through his Knight Lieutenant’s mind now.  Cullen sighed and turned him ‘round so that he could sponge Carver’s face; he would need to keep the man here ‘til he cooled down and his hair dried, or everyone would know what they’d been about.  Carver looked away as Cullen did this, and again when Cullen turned his face to wipe the other side.

"You need not think the less of yourself," Cullen said gently, stroking the cloth over his ears and neck.  "You did well to come to someone trustworthy who would help you, a fellow Templar, and to prove that no mage can rule you. You have protected your honor and that of the Order as well."

"This wasn’t how I — " Carver cut himself off, and flushed, and looked away again.  "Yes, ser."

Cullen licked his lips, then put the cloth aside and stepped closer, feeling all over awkward.  But the moment deserved honesty. “I am sorry it happened in this manner, Hawke, but — “  He hesitated, then followed the impulse; the Maker’s will be done.  “I cannot regret that it _happened_ , my knight.”

Carver straightened as if touched by lightning.  He stared at Cullen then, misery fading from his expression to be replaced by hope.  After a moment he blurted, “Maybe — ” A flush.  A darting-away of eyes, then back, and then the steel returned to Carver’s back.  “Maybe it can happen some more.  I mean.  If you want. Ser.”

He shouldn't want. He did, but... he should not.

"This... cannot happen again," he said, slowly. And as Carver's face crumpled, the hope fading to disappointment, he tried to mitigate the damage by explaining. "It isn't proper, Hawke. It isn't _safe_. Your brother -- Our commander -- Neither of us can take the risk, right now. If, if we were caught -- "

"We don't have to _get_ caught, ser." And now Cullen flinched as Carver lifted his eyes. No misery or shame there now, which was good; a desperate, fevered sort of determination had replaced them, which was terrible. Had the spell done this to him? Or had this -- _hunger_ \-- been there already, merely exacerbated by the magic? "I can be discreet, and, and everybody thinks you're as pure as Andraste's Ashes. If you asked me to dinner or something, officer to officer, if you did the same for others, said maybe you were trying to assess loyalty or something -- "

_"No,_ Hawke. This never happened." Carver's tumbling words stopped and he went still, radiating such hurt that Cullen ached, suddenly, with the desire to pull him close and kiss it away. _No. Remember duty._ But that was a hollow thought, and no comfort, with the lingering tingle of satisfaction sitting heavy in his groin, and a beautiful young man before him begging for more, and everything inside Cullen going tight and hollow at the thought of losing him. He had mentored Carver, liked him, been inching toward the closest thing to a friendship that could be had in a place like the Gallows, where trust was a luxury no one could afford. But Cullen had no illusions about what this event had done to their relationship, now. They were both all-or-nothing men at heart. If only he dared take the _all_ , instead of the _nothing_ \-- 

But he would not be selfish. Even if there was to be nothing further between them, Cullen would still put Carver first, and protect him from Meredith -- and Cullen's own weakness -- by doing so.

Hawke swallowed hard. Then he turned away, quickly dressing himself again, and Cullen tried not to notice how the Knight Lieutenant's hands shook while he did so. Cullen had a similar difficulty composing himself as he reached for his sash-and-tassets, but he'd had rather more practice at concealing distress. In moments he was armored and the office was tidy and when Carver straightened, it was as though nothing had happened.  But then Carver turned back to face him, at attention, his jaw tight and stance perfect even with a Void of anguish not quite hidden behind his duty mask. Cullen took a deep breath and snapped to attention as well. "Thanks for taking care of me, ser," Carver said, all business.  His jaw tightened for a moment, and then he added, "Won't speak of it again."

He clasped a hand to his breast in salute, and when Cullen nodded, he pivoted and left the office. Cullen followed him out, watching him stroll down the corridor as if nothing had happened, nothing was different -- when everything, really, had changed.

They would both forget this eventually, Cullen told himself, before asking the two guards inside for a little talk. And he would keep telling himself that, as often as he had to, for as long as it took Carver's taste to fade from his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver told Cullen he would not speak again of what happened between them. You don't need words to communicate, though.

     He knows that he is dreaming. Since the demon, he has always been hyperaware of the presence of the Fade in his mind -- and temptation.

     _Such_ temptation, though. It is Carver again, as it has been every night, as it has been sometimes in his daydreams whenever his focus slips. Carver kneeling, naked, arms strapped together behind his back. He is beautiful, gleaming with sweat as he was on _that day_ , his mouth wet and open and his cock a bobbing lure between his thighs. He says nothing, just looking at Cullen, but his whole body begs. _Please, ser._ The taste of his mouth is in Cullen's; Cullen fears he will never forget it. There is a sound echoing around them in the hovering mists of the Fade: soft breaths and clapping flesh. In the dream he walks toward Carver and aches with the sense-memory of touching him, pleasuring him, and stroking him to calmness after.

     He had all of it once, and can have it again. He has but to reach out his hand.

     "Begone," Cullen whispers. The dream (demon?) swirls away into nothingness.

     He wakes hot, and shaking, and hating himself.

#

     He cannot stop watching Hawke.

     (Carver. No. By day, on duty, he must be Hawke.)

     It is nothing troubling, he tells himself, that he does so. He is Hawke's commander, and Hawke is a valued young officer -- talented, quick-witted, strong-willed. A credit to the Order in every way, if a bit too compassionate toward the mages, and a bit too hard on those among his fellow Templars who take a harsher view. It was a struggle for Cullen to get Hawke promoted; Meredith thought him compromised by his brother. But lately Meredith has been -- distracted -- and now Cullen has the lieutenant that he's long dreamt of having.

     (This is not how things should be. He should not be able to _manipulate_ her so, and he should not need to. But he will do what he must for the good of the Gallows, and for himself.)

     That's the problem, though. He has begun to want things for himself that he should not.

     Lyrium distribution. This is the weekly ritual of it, done of course behind closed doors in the Gallows' chapel, so that the knights may re-dedicate themselves to the service beneath Andraste's watchful eye. That is the excuse made, anyhow. In actuality, it is done this way so that the mages will not see their jailors trembling with want, fidgeting with anxiety, humbled by their own weakness. It is done together, too, so that those whose strength has begun to falter will be bolstered by those who can still stand. Meredith's hands are rock-steady as she opens her palms to accept the seven vials; she has always done this with them, aware of her duty as role model. She raises her first vial toward Andraste before drinking -- and then she marches out, as a kindness. So the others will not have to fear losing her regard if they cannot match her example.

     Cullen stays, because it's his duty to notice who falters, for the sake of the whole Gallows. He is a role model too, however, and so he wills his hands still as the quartermaster counts out the week's ration and lays each vial in his hands. He keeps his movements smooth as he puts six of the vials into his belt pouch, and he is deliberately slow as he uncorks the seventh. He turns to face Andraste, and sincerely prays for the strength he will need to do the Maker's will for another week. Only then does he tip the vial to his lips and swallow -- but here, with the men watching, he does not close his eyes. He does not shudder, though the rush of the lyrium heats his blood and makes his every nerve feel alight. With the other six vials, in his quarters, he will lie on his bed and writhe after each dose. Not here.

     Other knights' reactions are both warning and humbling. Ser Denwen drops a vial because his hands are shaking too hard; he cries out in anguish when it shatters because lost vials are not replaced, to teach them care. He will have to ration the other vials, stretch six to make seven doses. Cullen has had to do that before -- every Templar drops a vial sometime -- and it is horrible, but Denwen will be stronger for it in the end. Ser Grabe barely seems to notice Denwen. She sets her vials down carefully on the pew behind her, uncorks one, and drinks it down slowly. Her eyes shut. Her throat works. All at once her posture is no longer martial, but sensual; she relaxes visibly lets out a long, heavy sigh that is dangerously close to a moan. The man nearest her -- Ser Smith, Cullen thinks, just a junior -- licks his lips watching, and then he's distracted when the quartermaster gives him his own vials. Cullen will not be surprised to get reports later that Grabe was seen in the dusty, shadowed cubby of the West Hall, her head down and hands against the wall and tassets put aside, with Smith thrusting steadily into her from behind. (Cullen always overlooks such indiscretions after lyrium distribution, though he will quietly remind Smith to tighten the straps of his pauldrons in the future so they do not rattle so noticeably.)

     Hawke is different. (Hawke is always different.) Perhaps it is because he was raised among mages; perhaps it's because he never bothers to pray when he goes to the Chantry; perhaps he just doesn't care. Regardless of the reason, there's no shame in the way he takes his lyrium. He does not hunch, as so many of the knights do, hating themselves even as they crave. He does not shake, but neither does he bother pretending he doesn't want the stuff. He nods to the quartermaster -- which always makes the quartermaster blink, so rarely do the knights meet her eye or acknowledge anything more than the lyrium in her hands -- and then plonks his leftover vials down with a carelessness that makes everyone near him flinch. (He's never broken a vial, though, that Cullen can remember.) He pops the cap and tosses it back like a stiff drink at the Rose, and then he _grimaces_. Like it's bad liquor and not magic made tangible, the literal stuff of dreams and nightmares, worth more than his monthly pay. Then he shifts his shoulders and shakes out his legs and sighs, and he's done. All ready to face evil. It's almost an insult to all of them who struggle so.

     It's so breathtaking that Cullen cannot help but admire him, every time.

     The mistake is that he's looking at Hawke and not Andraste this time, when he swallows his own lyrium. As the cold burn of it spreads down his throat and starts the tingling through his nerves, he sees Carver make his awful lyrium-face and cannot help thinking of the man's face in orgasm instead: his eyes fluttering shut, his brows tented upward in desperation, his jaw clenched, his lips parted. Cullen remembers the little whimpering sounds Hawke made, the quick breaths, the soft moan of relief as the moment passed, the way his whole body went from taut and needful to replete.

     And suddenly the tingling has found a center in Cullen's groin. He's _hard_ , so hard. He feels a phantom stroke down the oversensitive skin of his cock, the ring-and-grip and heat of Hawke's flesh; Maker, yes, that is exactly what it felt like to penetrate him. But now Carver is _looking_ at him, and Cullen realizes he's been staring. He wrenches his gaze away and checks to see if anyone else is looking; preoccupied with their own need or repletion, no one is.

     When he glances back, though, Carver is still watching him, face schooled to expressionlessness. But he does not look away. Cullen does that, turning and gathering up his gauntlets and heading out to resume his duties.

     It isn't fleeing. It isn't.

#

     "Bless me, Mother," he says to his hands, in the warm close darkness of the confessional. "I have sinned, and know not how to stop."

     He has already been absolved of what he did to Carver. Bending his lieutenant over a desk and fucking him 'til he wept was not a sin, somehow, because Cullen did it with good intentions, to help Carver retain his sanity through the torment of the lust-spell. But the mother to whom he made that confession warned, _Keep him in mind always as a brother in the Maker's sight, and guard yourself against desire, lest you taint the good you have already done_. Yes, well. That ship has sailed.

     "I dream of him," Cullen admits. His voice shakes as he does so. "When I look at him I, I, I _taste_ him. I try not to look at him and then I hear his voice -- " His hands are knots. He feels so helpless. He has cut down blood mages, faced the worst depravities of the Fade and survived, yet against this he is weak, weak, weak. "I will not yield. I will not. It is wrong. But I have tried to make myself stop _wanting_ and, and..." He trails off. It is obvious that his efforts have failed.

     "Does he desire you in return?" asks the woman in the booth, and Cullen freezes.

     It is a question whose answer he has simply assumed to be negative. Carver came to him only because of the spell, after all. Given a choice, he would never have touched Cullen.

     And yet... Carver had had a choice, so to speak. The spell had pushed him toward its caster, but Carver had come to Cullen instead. He had chosen. Wanted, on at least some level, or he would not have been able to refuse the magic.

     Does Carver want him still, then, without magic to taint his desires?

     _Maybe it can happen some more. I mean. If you want. Ser._ Carver's words, stammered and shy, after the heat of their coupling had cooled.

     But then Cullen had told him no.

     "He -- once, perhaps," Cullen says. "I know not if he wants me any longer, though."

     The woman sighs. "Desire is normal," she says, which makes Cullen flinch and frown. She's a different mother than the one he made his first confession to. Perhaps that was a mistake; he came expecting excoriation, not absolution. But he hears experience in her voice when she speaks, and suddenly he understands: he is not the only one who has craved what he should not. "If you cannot deny it, then you must seek some means of making it righteous. But _only_ if _he_ wants, my child. It is when lust consumes us that it becomes sin."

     Cullen shakes his head, wondering. "I am his superior."

     "Desire goes where it will. Yours began in kindness, not greed, which makes it wholesome. Keep kindness in your thoughts and it remains so."

     Cullen bites his bottom lip, but he understands. "Better that I never touch him again than that he should feel pressured because of rank." Then he frowned, abruptly troubled. "But perhaps -- for kindness -- I should do nothing. There are... _political_ concerns." A commander whose paranoia frightens him more by the day. Conspirators in every shadow. Bad enough the rumors have gotten out; Cullen's seen half the senior knights giving him wry knowing looks, and the other half glaring at him in disgust.

     (What is Carver going through, though? That troubles him more.)

     "No, I must protect him. I have already damaged his career. To do more -- " His heart grows heavy, and he steels himself to simply endure the longing. But he cannot, will not, endanger Carver for his own selfish wants. "Thank you, Mother; you have helped me see the clearer."

     "You're welcome, my child." Then she pauses. "But I'll say one last thing: the man you've described to me certainly knows his own mind. Take care that you don't try to make his choices _for_ him. Maker watch over you."

     It could mean anything. He doesn't understand. But others are waiting to unburden themselves, and he feels too raw and miserable inside to speak more. "Yes... yes."

     He leaves, and wonders that his newfound resolve to leave Carver alone feels hollow and wrong.

#

     The next few days are difficult.

     Cullen meets with Hawke once per week, same as with his other Knight Lieutenants. In the weeks since the spell -- he cannot allow himself to think of it as _since our lovemaking_ \-- Hawke has been cool, professional, and more distant than before. Because of shame, Cullen once thought... but now Cullen wonders. Now he remembers how _hurt_ Hawke was, when Cullen said no. Perhaps Hawke keeps distance and professionalism between them as protection against further pain.

     But something has changed today, as Hawke stands before him and gives his usual reports. The previous week, Hawke kept his gaze positioned somewhere over Cullen's shoulder. Now he looks right at Cullen, unblinking, unwavering, his gaze so intense that at first Cullen thinks Hawke is angry about something. Then he notices what Hawke is actually saying, and with this comes a jarring, terrifying additional realization: that his staring at Hawke during the lyrium ritual has given too much away. Hawke knows, now, that Cullen's rejection was for Hawke's protection, not lack of desire.

     And -- oh, Maker. Hawke does not _want_ to be protected by Cullen. That is indisputably clear.

     "Please, ser." The words jar Cullen out of troubled reverie, spearing deep into his mind -- and elsewhere. _Please, ser. I need you._

     He jerks and says, "Hawke? Ah, pardon me; woolgathering."

     "S'all right, ser. My requisition, though, ser?" He nods toward Cullen's desk. "The practice-yard rotation I asked you about?"

     It is routine nothingness. Cullen picks up the form and looks at it without seeing. There was no reason for Hawke to say --

     "Please, ser."

     Cullen flinches again. Hawke kissing him, coaxing him, begging Cullen to come inside him. "Hawke. You, ah, you need not ask in so abject a fashion."

     "Oh. Sorry, ser." Hawke's eyes bore into his. He knows full well what his words have done to Cullen, and he's not sorry at all. "Won't speak of it again."

     Cullen swallows and tells his guts to stop fluttering.

     The rest of the meeting is routine, too, and that lets him calm down, somewhat. He is still tensed for Hawke's attack, because that is the sort of man Hawke is, and now Cullen knows himself to be in Hawke's sights. But Hawke says nothing else. That's worse, somehow. That Hawke should be so patient, and cruel.

     Hawke leaves, though, by backing toward the door after his salute. Never looking away from Cullen, and with an expression on his face that is three parts warning and one part want. Cullen cannot look away, either. Behind the desk, his fists are clenched on his thighs. When Hawke is gone, Cullen lets out a shaky breath, not quite in relief.

     It is only the beginning, though.

     It's there in every _ser_ that Hawke bestows upon him thenceforth -- for Hawke says this word in a low voice, speaking softly, as if it is some private endearment between them. Never when anyone else is around, but when they are alone -- and that is something that happens often because Hawke is Cullen's lieutenant -- ah, then even Hawke's voice makes war upon him. It's there in Hawke's gaze, which sometimes flicks down Cullen's body as if imagining what he cannot see beneath the armor. It is relentless, and it is painfully erotic, and through it all Hawke never says a word. Because he'd promised not to, after all, and Hawke is nothing if not a man of his word. His behavior is left for Cullen to call out... and Cullen cannot bring himself to.

     Maker, he's weak.

     One afternoon Hawke invites him to spar for the education of the recruits. The battle is fierce and fast and will permit Cullen no inhibitions; there's no time for niceties, not if he wants to win. But it is impossible, in the heat of battle, amid the thrill of adrenaline and the clash of bodies, not to notice how Hawke _grins_ at him, though they say not a word to each other. Impossible not to notice how Hawke grunts at Cullen's blows, makes little sounds when he thrusts. And finally when Cullen disarms him, Hawke drops to his knees, face upturned, mouth wet and open, his whole body begging. "Mercy, ser," he says, and _he knows what this does to Cullen_. That's in his face, too-obvious. "I'll do anything you ask."

     It's almost on Cullen's tongue, too. _Open your lovely mouth, Hawke_.

     No. No.

     He makes himself say instead, "I will accept your parole, since you've offered. But I cannot kill you, alas, for you have paperwork to do." And he smiles as if it is a joke, so that the watching recruits will laugh and clap politely, which they do. He thanks Hawke with a nod of the head, racks his sword and shield, and leaves the yard hoping no one will notice the stiffness of his walk.

     He heads for the officers' bath. Too far to his own chambers, given that he's still on duty -- though he thinks about it, hard, given how hard he is. But there's no one else in the bath chamber; it's mid-shift, and the Tranquil have been in to clean and gone, so cautiously Cullen racks his armor and undresses. He looks down at his aching, thwarted cock and -- no. _It is when lust consumes us that it becomes sin_. He will endure. He sits and scrubs and pours cold water over his own head, and that is almost enough to drive the worst of the thoughts into silence. Almost

     _anything you ask_

     enough that he

     _anything you want_

     sets the bucket down and props his head in his hands and groans aloud. "Maker, give me strength."

     "Ser."

     He stands and turns, too-quickly. Hawke saunters toward him, armor neatly set up on the rack behind him, shirt and trou draped over a line to dry after rinsing. How distracted has Cullen been, not to hear him come in? And Hawke is _naked_ , sweet Hawke, beautiful Hawke, naked and as erect now as ever on the day of the lust-spell, only there is no magic diluting the hot promise of his expression this time.

     "H-Hawke -- "

     "Ser." Hawke -- _Carver_ , here in the wet silence of the bathchamber, where they are alone -- stops in front of him. Too near; he's close enough that Cullen can feel the tickle of his breath, the stir of air as he bends for a moment to pick up the soap Cullen was using. Cullen cannot step away; that would be weakness. Even though -- "Let me take care that for you, ser."

     "What?" But Carver steps closer, right up against him now, nothing that propriety can excuse, and now his arm has slid 'round Cullen's waist, and his soapy hand -- oh, Maker -- his soapy hand closes 'round Cullen's cock, massaging it gently. "Hawke!"

     "Please, ser. Like you did for me."

     Cullen flinches, and his cock throbs. Sweet Andraste. "H-Hawke..."

     "Tell me to stop, if you want." It's a whisper, now, a ramble, like the day of the spell. How much of that had been the magic? Not much, clearly. And oh, Maker, Carver's steady, working hand. Perfect strong swordsman's grip. "I'll do anything you want, ser, you know it, but don't you want? I think you do. And I want what you want." That. Hand. "Anything. Everything."

     Oh demons and dreams.

     Carver nuzzles the side of his face, his ear. It's all just a murmur. "Tell me to get on my knees if you want. Anything."

     Cullen has to bite his lip to stifle a moan. Anyone could come in. Anyone could catch them, but... the wet sliding sounds make him twitch. And now Carver's hand has shifted position, doing something; Cullen looks down between them to see Hawke bringing himself into line, closing his hand 'round them both, and the sensation of it is -- is -- Cullen can only clutch at Carver's arm and tremble with it.

     Carver's breath is light and quick against Cullen's ear. "Yeah. That's right, ser. Let me, nnh -- " Beautiful, Carver's face, tightening quickly toward his peak. "Let me take care of you, that's all I want, all I ever wanted. Anything _you_ want, please, sometimes I come just thinking about you in me, taking me again, I'll warm the desk whenever you want, just sodding please." Cullen cannot help another whimper. " _Please_."

     "Hawke!" Cullen's voice breaks. He must muffle himself against Carver's shoulder, lest he be too loud, but now his mouth is on Carver's hot skin and that is its own delicious torture.

     Carver groans and presses close, his hand a hard, fast clap now. "Bloody _please, ser_."

     Cullen comes. It is not a poetic thing; it is all strain and release, ache and relief, so fierce and intense and powerful that his ears ring and his body shakes and he sets his teeth deep into the meat of Carver's shoulder to keep from crying aloud. Through the pounding of blood in his ears he hears Carver's breath hitch and feels his hand grip tighter, milking them both, dragging out their pleasure, it is messy and awful and... magnificent.

     And then Carver _steps away_. He takes up a bucket. As Cullen stands there, dazed, Carver pours the water over himself, splashing a little more 'round his softening cock, watching Cullen and catching his breath the whole time. Then the bucket's empty, and Carver _turns to go_ , grabbing his clothes and gathering his armor. It's not unusual for knights to skin through the bathing area on their way to the officers' quarters but that's not why he's doing it, and before Cullen can think enough to speak, Carver is gone.

     _Won't speak of it again_.

     Yes. Well. Carver is nothing if not honorable.

     Cullen rinses himself again. He soaks for a few minutes in the bath, trying to wrap his head around what's just happened. Wondering if he has dreamt it. The ringing satisfaction in his body belies this; the lingering taste of Carver's skin on his teeth does too. He does not know what it means, any of it. He does not know what to think. It is not what he intended.

     _Don't try to make his choices for him_ , the Chantry mother had said.

     That's certainly not a problem anymore.

     Cullen pulls himself together eventually, and dresses and armors up again, heading forth to finish his shift. He passes Carver -- Hawke -- at the start of the other man's patrol; Hawke salutes him perfunctorily, then goes on speaking to Ser Langley about whatever they'd been discussing before. But Hawke's eyes linger for a moment before he focuses on the conversation again, and in that half-breath Cullen's whole body tightens in joy, in longing, in fear. Then Hawke is gone, through the promise of _next time_ hovers in his wake.

     Maker forgive him, Cullen thinks. He has sinned, and he cannot stop sinning.

     But neither can he deny that some part of him... does not mind being a sinner. Not in this one way.

     So Cullen heads to his quarters, to pray and to think, and... well. To anticipate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen reaches an understanding.

     Cullen sits at the window of his chambers, in a pool of moonlight, contemplating.

     His demon has always been desire. He knows this -- and has confronted it, and defeated it. But that does not make him safe from it. Denial, in fact, is more dangerous than direct address; this too he is willing -- grudgingly, belatedly -- to acknowledge.

     So, confrontation: He desires Carver Hawke.

     Powerfully. Carnally. He has desired Hawke for months, years; he isn't sure when it began, but it has flavored all their interactions, an undertaste of salt and sweet wanting, and sour guilt. It is a lustful thing, but there is more to it than that. Love? He doesn't know. Liking, certainly. A desire for more.

     Cullen shifts a little in his chair. He's naked, but the chair is comfortable. Being Knight Captain does have some benefits. The moon is high and bright in the sky beyond the window; if he goes to bed soon, he'll have at least a few solid hours of sleep before morning muster. Pity he hasn't been able to sleep, tormented by thoughts.

     Thoughts of Carver, bent over his desk and begging for Cullen's cock. Pressing close to Cullen in the bathchamber and breathing soft pleas into his ear. Tongue in Cullen's mouth, coaxing, promising. A bitten lip, holding back louder passion. Carver saying _anything you want, ser_ , and meaning it.

     Cullen swallows and wraps a hand around his cock, which is of course hard. It feels exquisite at once, when he begins to stroke; he will not last long.

     Another confrontation: What Cullen wants frightens him. Yet Carver begs for it, in full knowing.

     A quandry.

     Is it wrong to want such things? If they are harmful, surely, yes, but otherwise? If Carver wants them? If Cullen yearns as much for Carver's pleasure as his own? Surely the Maker made them both this way. Surely there is some reason for that.

     He wants: Carver on his knees. Carver over his desk again, Cullen sipping tea and continuing to sign paperwork as usual while he fucks. (He dislikes that word, but that is what it would be.) Carver waiting in his bed, trussed up and nether-oiled and stretched and ready, so that Cullen can gaze at him as he racks his armor after a shift, then stride over and bury his troubles in warm, whimpering welcome. Carver under the spell again -- willingly, this time, or perhaps having consumed some aphrodesiac -- writhing and desperate as Cullen licks him just enough to tease, not enough to relieve, and keeps him in that state for hours.

     Carver _wants_ this. It is amazing. Cullen inhales and strokes faster, leaning back in the chair so he can lift his hips.

     Yes, like this, being inside Carver. _Fucking_ him. Spilling in him, balls-deep and mindblowing; feeling Carver shudder in his own pleasure. What would it be like to have Carver in him, in turn? Would it hurt? Would he like that? What would it be like to feel him shudder and spend down Cullen's throat? To take him, and then withdraw and swallow him down, and then take him again, over and over --

     Cullen's body is bowed, now, his whole awareness narrowed to his cock.

     The taste of Carver's lips. The tooth-feel of his skin. The scent of his sweat. The shaky sound of his breath as he draws it in to say:

     _Please, ser_.

     It takes everything Cullen has not to moan out Carver's name.

#

     The next morning he stops Hawke after muster, and advises him to make his report later than usual that evening, at Cullen's quarters, since Cullen will be busy with inventory at their usual time. Sadly, this must be after the end of Carver's duty-shift; Cullen hopes he does not mind too much.

     "Fine, ser," Hawke says, watching him unblinking. "Whatever you want, ser."

     Later, when Hawke stands before him in his bedroom, naked and beautiful in the moonlight, Cullen crosses his legs and says, "Here is how it must be." He lays out the rules, brief but firm. Hawke is to never again say _please_ to him while on duty; begging is to be reserved for the bedchamber. Hawke is also never to approach Cullen in a prurient fashion while on duty; Cullen will do the same. Their work is too important, and neither of them can afford selfish distractions. They must vary their meeting times, establish no sort of routine that will make it easier for them to be caught in impropriety. And, of course, if either Hawke or Cullen wishes an end to the arrangement, it may be done with no consequences. To that, Cullen offers his most solemn vow.

     Hawke -- Carver, here and now and nude -- nods. "One more rule, ser?" When Cullen nods for him to go ahead, Carver licks his lips. "I want you to really do whatever you want to me, ser. Whatever's in your head, no matter what it is." He swallows. "I'm yours for anything. Promise you'll _give_ me anything."

     Cullen uncrosses his legs. "I will stop the instant you say 'enough.'"

     "But not _until_." Carver's eyes are so blue. He wants this so much. " _Promise_."

     Another confrontation: Cullen wants to do _so many things_ to Carver Hawke.

     He stands and presses his fist to his breast so that Hawke will know the words for a vow. "I will give you everything of myself that you can bear, my knight." He licks his lips. Swallows. "Now. Get down on your knees, and open your mouth, and close your eyes."

     Carver shudders all over, but obeys. Cullen undresses, memorizing the moment, savoring the anticipation, accepting the terrible truth of himself. He is Cullen, Knight Captain, Endurance of the Order. He is what the Maker has made of him, in light and in shadow. It would be a greater sin _not_ to claim what is his.

     He walks toward Carver slowly, and yields to the Maker's will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamn it. Had to get this off my chest; it was driving me nuts. At least I managed to keep it short.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by cypheroftyr, who's home sick today. A quickie for a sickie. :P

Begging is to be reserved for the bedroom.  That is the first rule.

Hawke -- Carver -- sits on his knees, trembling with want.  Cullen wasn't certain at first that such tension was want and not fear, and during their first few bouts of lovemaking (if this can be called lovemaking) he made the error of being too cautious.  Carver made him pay for those errors.  They have been doing this for months now, but Cullen still feels the phantom set of teeth in the meat of his thigh, still hears Carver's frustrated _Fucking anything, ser, you promised, you **said** anything_ echoing in his mind. Such errors are common in the early days with any new lover, though, and Cullen has since corrected himself, put more trust in Carver's honesty.  The trembling is want.

Which is why Cullen has said, for tonight's session, "You may speak only when spoken to, and only to answer _yes, ser_ or _no, ser_.  Is that understood?"

Trembling, and the licking of lips; these are Carver's silent pleas for more.  "Yes, ser."

Cullen sits naked, sprawled over the window chair of his apartment as if it is a throne, with one leg draped over its arm.  Carver kneels in a pool of moonlight before him.  The belts that Cullen has buckled 'round his arms, trapping them behind his back, aren't why he's trembling.  The slender rod in Cullen's hand -- palmed from one of the Enchanters' lecterns after lights-out, just a long thin piece of polished birchwood meant for pointing to a chalkboard -- might be why he's trembling, though Cullen doubts it.  Cullen touches the rod to the side of Carver's face, gently, just to get his attention.  Carver's been staring at Cullen's cock, you see.  He looks up instantly at Cullen's touch, but his eyes flick down again almost as quickly, and he licks his lips again.  So much want.

Such beautiful begging.  "Would you like to taste me?" Cullen asks.

"Yes, ser!"  Blurted quickly, almost before Cullen's question is finished.  Cullen touches the rod to his lips, a subtle warning.  He is not the sort of man who tolerates insubordination.  But Carver swallows again, takes a deep breath, and says in a more appropriate tone, "Yes, ser."

The demon in Cullen's memories holds no power over him during these sweet hours with Carver.  Cullen is so grateful to him, for this.

So he allows Carver to come forward, and to beg again with his tongue and his lips and his throat.  Carver is shameless, and there is an edge of desperation to his attempts to swallow Cullen whole, possibly because Cullen has anointed him with an oil from the Rose called "Serrah's Sweet".  _This_ is why Carver trembles, his cock shining with the tingling oil but bobbing neglected in the air as he tries to coax Cullen out of the chair.  It is a sore temptation, and a cruelty to both of them, that Cullen must restrain himself long enough to be sure that Carver will continue to obey orders.  If he speaks...

Ah.  He does not.  Yes, very good.  So when the tension in Cullen's belly grows great, he can be generous.  He sets the rod down -- but it is important that he maintain discipline in _some_ way, if not with that. After a moment's consideration, he says, "Do be so kind as to hold my tea for me, would you?"

The table is behind them, and on it is a tea service, set to one side.  A cozy has kept the pot warm.  Wordlessly Carver lies down beside it, on his back, which is awkward given his arms.  But he's careful, and curls his body just so to make a flat platform of his abdomen, his legs hovering ready in the air.  When Cullen comes over, he sets the cup and saucer on Carver's belly and pours with one hand.  Carver's cock lies glistening just below the saucer, as if pointing to it. Lovely. With the other hand, Cullen positions himself and pushes slowly, relentlessly, into the man.  Carver makes a little sound, but does not twitch. Not a drop of the tea spills, which is good, because it's still hot enough to sting, if not scald.  Carver can probably feel the warmth of it through the saucer that sits on his skin.

"Now."  Cullen wets his hand with more of the Sweet, and uses it to very lightly stroke the underside of Carver's cock.  Carver shudders minutely; the tea in the cup ripples but does not slosh.  Very good.  Cullen begins to thrust, gently and steadily; more ripples, but no danger of a spill.  It feels exquisite, but watching the growing tension in Carver's body is better.  The tea will not spill so long as Carver holds still... but he's trembling so much already, and breathing harder.  It will be a losing game.

Cullen licks his own lips, and reminds himself that Carver demanded this of him. _Promise you'll give me anything._

He is a man who keeps his promises. "Now," Cullen says again, softly.  "Let us see if I can make you say, _'No, ser,'_ for once."  And with that, he begins.


End file.
